🐟 Fishtank Fishtank.Live General - Jet Neptune's Pisces Aquarium Internet Reality Show w/ Host Bam Margera

Twins
[...]Homestuck and Fishtank. They watched Fishtank every day and drew Homestuck characters with crayons in big loops. One afternoon there was a knock at the door. Bingo opened the door. John Egbert and Karkat Vantas were standing there, big and bright, just like in the comics. Bingo screamed. Bongo screamed louder. The characters said hello. Bingo and Bongo made room at the craft table immediately. John drew Bingo, Karkat drew Bongo. Bingo drew Fishtank. Bongo drew eleven pictures of Karkat. Karkat was polite about it. When it was time to leave, Bingo and Bongo waved from the doorway until they were gone. Then they sat down and drew some more. Bingo and Bongo lived happily ever after. The end.

Anissa's
[I was laughing too hard. Maybe I'll bother, depends if she leaves and if its interesting at all.]

JD's
[...] JD noticed nothing. He swirled his whisky, raised both brows at a woman who had not looked at him, and smiled warmly. Across the room robots finished its task. JD watched it with something close to genuine love. He clapped once. Then he turned, raised his glass, and said: "After all this is over, lets all play some Mario Kart together!"

The Letter
against the glass like that does something. You look so bright in there, just as you always look, which is like everything. I got out of the ward and came home and the apartment was exactly as your left it and you are coming back and that is a fact like gravity. I sleep on your side of the bed now. I been writing your name on things, just small things, to keep it present in the room. You are mine, Emma. That is not a feeling, that is a structue, load-bearing and permanent. I watch you laugh on the television and think she does not know I am watching but I am always watching. Come home. Come home. I will be here. I am always here. I have nowhere else to be.

Becoming James Drake
It has been twelve days. I live in the basement with the rest of the production, which is fine. From down here I can hear him moving around upstairs. The way he holds a coffee cup. The angle of his jaw when he looks off-camera. The cadence of his voice right before the director calls cut. Everyone else clocks out and goes to sleep. I stay up. I study. I have memoorized his laugh, the half-second delay before his smile, the way he sqares his shoulders. He still does not know I exist. That is fine. He does not need to yet. This morning I looked in the mirror while the others slept and for a moment I was not sure which one of us I was looking at. It passed. But it lasted longer than yesterday. I have been practicing the walk. I will be ready soon.

The Janitor
Landon was a Lil Guy who who worked as a Janitor and hated every second of it. His shoelaces were always untied because the bow would not cooperate, no matter how often he tried. The one thing in life that brought him joy was cheesy fries. Hot, golden, and perfect. His caretakers Jet and Ben loved him like a son. They made him fries and asked him, gently and always, to please clean up the messes. Landon cleans up the spills. He has a hidden talent for not seeing things in front of him. One evening, after a catastrophic nacho incident, they sat with him in the break room. No lecture. Just quiet. Ben slid the mop across the floor. Landon looked at it a long time. He picked it up. He started cleaning. It takes a boy to make a mess, but a man to clean it.

The Man of the World
[..] Syrian, Muslim, part Native American, he spent his years in Japan. These were not merely facts but a rotating aresenal deployed into any conversation. Someone mentioned food and Bashir explained what was the wrong across four cultural frameworks. He made snide remarks about things he found culturally insufficient, which was most things. At the company potluck he brought three dishes and explained each at considerablelength. In a meeting, he mentioned Osaka. He corrected someone's pronunciation in a language he did not fully speak. He nodded at everything said, as though he alone grasped its true cultural weight. Nobody asked follow-up questions. They had learned not to.

I'll go fill these in in a bit. Bashir's was the only one I had to actually pay attention to; most of them I could drink or watch the sneed-chat.